by Dan Henk
I find myself on a small side street, the trees breaking their ceiling of shade to form a misshapen expanse of bleached asphalt. Surrounding me on all sides are the forsaken shells of suburban homes, the dark windows glowering out like the eyes of an abandoned pet. The whole neighborhood has an eerie feel to it, like it’s on the edge of a precipice, gazing back with a mix of resentment and trepidation. I hear a distant hum in the air. Time to leave.
Being that I don’t know the area, it will take some tooling around to find a highway. I don’t want to go back the way I came. This tree cover might throw off the initial attempts at pursuit. I’ve made it a few blocks from the telecommunications building, and they haven’t found me yet.
I roll out onto the entrance road and follow it as it curves around, ascending a small incline. The trees fall back and sunshine drenches the rows of tawdry houses, their quality waning as I venture into the seedier part of town. I see no other cars on the road. A stop sign at a traffic triangle lets out onto a more major road, and I find myself driving through downtown Arlington. The streets are lined with small businesses, the buildings dilapidated and dirty looking, yet shuttered and locked tight. There’s been no apparent looting, but everything is dead silent. Transmission stores are latched and battened down next to vacant delis.
A car ambles down the road toward me, a red, mid-80s sedan, going noticeably faster than the speed limit. As the vehicle passes, I see the driver is a young guy, probably mid twenties, with short brown hair and an olive green jacket. His gaze is fixed forward, intent on something. He doesn’t even try to make eye contact, as if he’s caught up in some nightmarish dream and a sideways glance might bring in the monsters. This must be like the end of the world for some people. They go about their insulated lives, completely unaware of the frail ideology underpinning society. Empires fall all the time—it’s just a matter of when, not if. The Egyptian Empire, the Greek Empire, the Roman Empire, the Mongolian Empire, the French Empire—the US is little more than a speck compared to what has preceded it.
The stoplights are working, and I slow as I near a crossroads. But there is nothing, the intersection is dead. I pause, listening for any distant sounds of pursuit. I hear in the distance the drone of a helicopter, maybe two, but no heavy machinery. None of the mechanical grunting of armored vehicles. I take a left, heading through a queue of small stores toward what I think is Alexandria and a ramp for the interstate.
The area gets seedier, deteriorating from somewhat more reputable cafes and small office buildings into ramshackle dives serving as small shops. I see a few signs that tell me I’m on Leesburg Pike, but I’m still not sure I’m headed the right way, and the last thing I need to do is waste all my fuel tooling around Northern Virginia. The street shifts into King’s Road, and the buildings start to grow in size and refinement. Just when I’m convinced I’m lost, I round an expansive bend and spot a blue shield on an overhanging green metal sign: 395, with the words “Richmond” and “Washington” stamped in giant white letters beneath. Mexico, here I come!
CHAPTER XI
THE LONE STAR STATE
It’s a big country—don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. It feels even bigger when you’re trying to get across it in a hurry. By virtue of size, each state could qualify as a country in Europe. Granted, way more bland and boring than a trip across that continent, but no less time consuming. Maybe I’ve just had my fill of rural areas, but hour after hour of interstate, abraded by brief glimpses of industrialization as I pass through a town, and it all starts to look the same. The same roads, the same fields, the same indistinguishable clusters of concrete buildings, bedecked with their gaudy signs. None of the skyscrapers and urban decay of New York, or the striking architecture mingled with ancient decrepitude of Europe. It seems like every rural area could be the inspiration for a Norman Rockwell painting. I know that’s more the veneer than the crux. The rustic houses more than likely have cell phones and Internet access and no doubt harbor plenty of dirty secrets. I think twice about how the whole online access thing has panned out in this chaos. The Internet is worldwide, but many service providers are local.
The urban areas I encounter are more disquieting... vacant strip malls, the premises devoid of cars... city streets with little or no traffic, the tall office buildings nestled amidst empty parking lots. They all look trashier than ever, the refuse taking center stage as it’s tossed about by the wind, the stained buildings vulnerable in their desertion.
I wonder how long this will last, this hibernation and shock. It’s only been a couple of days—and I have no idea how the local militias and governments are operating—but this has got to progress to some new state of sovereignty soon. There’s probably more tension and malcontent in the cities, but I’m avoiding them as much as possible. I don’t need to get caught up in some local insurrection, I just need to make it to Mexico. The smoother the ride, the better.
This car is a gas-guzzler. The engine growls heartily as I fly down the interstate, but the needle seems to constantly drop. I don’t even know what state I’m in... probably still Virginia. Spying a blue sign indicating food and gas, I pull off the highway at the next exit. Immediately afield the ramp is an Exxon on the right. Closed up tight, but easy enough to break into. I wonder if the more corporate businesses are opening later? The mom and pop shops put money earned right in their pockets, but the corporate wage slaves have no way of knowing they’ll get paid. Then again, I wonder what the currency is? I doubt the US dollar counts for much anymore. That might explain the delay. No one wants to reopen for business until they are sure they’re getting paid!
The gas station is the contemporary cookie-cutter design, all stiff glass panels and glistening steel corners, brandishing digital pumps and the modern conveniences of quarter vacuums and pressurized air. The pavement appears to be recent, the jagged fringes of freshly poured concrete still visible. I kick in the glass door, creating a spectacular bluster of spewing silver shards.
These modern gas stations have an electronic system for turning on the pumps, which for my purposes proves inconvenient. I survey the interior of the little mini mart for the utility closet.
Buried in the shadows are shelves gorged with junk food and cheap plastic contraptions. In the back corner, nestled between a beer poster and a cooler actually stocked with the real thing, is a matte gray door.
Maneuvering between the rows, I grab the handle. Locked. Tightening my grip, I jerk it backwards. The metal wrenches away with a screech. The L-shaped door lever trails a string of shiny components in its wake, leaving the door behind firmly locked in place. Great. I pause and simmer. That sudden anger that creeps up when things don’t go my way evidently is still with me. I punch through the hole, spread out my fingers, and pull. The door tears open with a whine, the last bits of the deadlock flying out and torpedoing into the shelves behind me. Gripping the edge of the door, I pull my hand free.
The closet is small, and I can barely squeeze inside. This body apparently isn’t as flexible as the human form. I crash into a mop bucket, bathing my feet in dirty water, and fall forward into a wall- mounted metal box. Steadying myself, I rip off the dented lid of the circuit breaker housing and flick a couple of switches. A humming noise ensues, and the store is drenched in fluorescent light. Returning to the register, I turn on the pump and head back out to the car.
The nozzle clicks off a full tank, and I wander back into the mini-mart, scanning the aisles for a few gas cans. Scooping them up, I head back out to the pump. A little insurance for down the road.
The large commercial gas stations are my new focus. Easy to rob, often a fully stocked little store, and I don’t feel like I’m robbing some poor guy’s livelihood. I grab a few gas cans whenever I find them and load the containers up. The back seat is starting to look like a depot for red plastic jugs, the assorted sizes and shapes forming a cluttered mess. I can sense the gas fumes, but they don’t bother me. I’m sure a human would find them almost unbearable. This car
is a tinderbox, but I’d survive an explosion—and it’s a better gamble than trying to find fuel.
After a few more breaking-and-enterings, I return to the endless highway. I could take 85, which would be quicker, but I don’t want to pass through any more cities than I have to, especially after the misadventure that was Philly. I stick to 95, deciding to take it down to 10 before crossing over to Texas. The funny part is that I go right by Fayetteville. Although in the midst of all this turmoil, I’m probably the least of anyone’s concerns.
The routine continues with little variation. The sky slowly darkens until it’s a thick mass of clouds blocking out the sun. The air smells damp, like rain. Wait a minute... How did I know that?
Big, fat raindrops start to speckle the glass. Just enough to make me turn on the wipers. They screech miserably across the windshield. There’s not enough rain to satisfy them, but too much to turn them off.
I see a few more cars on the road now, but the corporate gas stations remain closed. Time seems to drag. I’m making good progress, my car traveling at ninety miles an hour. There’s no police or traffic to slow me down, but the South isn’t nearly as picturesque as upstate New York. The monotony starts to wear on me. I almost want some obstacle to pop up and break the tedium. I always hated long night drives.
Sailing by the outskirts of Fayetteville, I’m a little disappointed. No roadblocks. No barricades. No checkpoints. Just another small town in the endless procession that is provincial America. The same pattern keeps repeating itself, like a frustrating episode of The Twilight Zone. Endless rows of foliage, with a Spartan stretch of interstate pummeling through the midst. I need Rod Sterling to cut in and end this cycle.
The last of the daylight has succumbed by the time I roll through the outskirts of Jacksonville, Florida. This part of the excursion involves coming as near to a major city as I dare. I’m venturing this close only because I don’t want to hazard leaving the interstate and hampering my progress with local streets. They might harbor community resistance, and I could get lost in the unfamiliar terrain. I can guess how that would go down. I traipse around aimlessly until I finally have to stop for directions. I can’t even talk, and probably in this climate I’ll be mistaken as a sign of the approaching apocalypse. Small-minded people seem to interpret everything as a religious or supernatural event, and their reaction more often than not entails violence.
I scan the suburban sprawl that skirts the highway. Despite being cloaked in the darkness of night, it looks surprisingly lively.
Off to the left I can see the distant glow of industrial lights. There are more cars on the roads as well. Way less than normal, but the few that pass me every ten minutes or so seem an abundance compared to the deserted roads I’ve been traveling on the past couple of days. They whisk by, most of them exceeding the speed limit, and the vehicles seem to be mostly older models. Mainly US-made pickup trucks and sedans. Probably the crowd that possesses the pricier automobiles is still too timid to make an appearance. The rich are always more scared of change than the middle class. Some of the provincials, stuck in mind-numbing blue-collar jobs, probably even welcome the new order.
I need to get out of civilization before things start to coalesce. I can’t believe how naïve I was. It’s a huge stroke of luck that everything is so chaotic right now. I have no idea how I would have escaped the clutches of a united and omnipresent government.
I’m still under the cloak of night as I pass Tallahassee. Once again the traffic that had thinned out in the rural areas burgeons into a fragile convoy. In fact, it appears there are more vehicles on the streets here than in Jacksonville. Maybe the populace is already bouncing back. Or maybe being the state capital, and a much smaller city to boot, has emboldened the residents. Fewer immigrants means they’re probably more insular and capable of reacting more swiftly as a community. Signs of increasing organization do not bode well. I need the chaos to reign just a little longer. With more of the rank and file returning to their daily routine, it’s probably unwise to raid many more gas stations.
Passing the city, I pull off on the shoulder and refuel. It takes a good five containers to fill up the tank. My stockpile is rapidly diminishing. The mound rises up from the floorboards and barely touches a backseat it formerly buried. Tossing aside each used can, I litter the grassy shoulder with the scraps of our flagging civilization. Non-degradable refuse that will eventually bury us all in a mountain of useless garbage.
The fuel overflows, bubbling out of the intake and flowing down the red fender in a glossy film. I ponder for a moment how that will eventually strip off the paint. If the car even survives that long. I don’t have high hopes.
The dawn is almost upon me as I approach Mobile, Alabama. That would be yet another city we stole from the Indians. I-10 ascends onto a wide, flat bridge, the two sides splitting into dual walled structures with each roadway harboring twin lanes, the space in-between a sheer drop to the ocean below. The highways wind out in a giant loop toward the faraway hint of a dark metropolis. The streetlights aren’t working, and the night is pervasive, imparting an abandoned, menacing aura. As I ascend onto the overpass, half-walls of concrete edge in, flanking the roadsides. It feels like they are closing in, the proximity suddenly uncomfortable. A harsh gale sweeps in from the sea, thundering the sides of the car and whistling over my skin.
I look out, past the dark outlines of the opposite span, at the huge expanse of water beyond. The crests of the waves catch the starlight, the monolithic body roiling in a frigid mass toward the ocean. All looks forsaken and alone. The cold forces of nature slowly wearing down any ephemeral structure that man in his arrogance had erected. I wonder how long all this would last without mankind? It might not even last with him.
The glare of my headlights catches the contours of a car, deserted in a diagonal wreck that chokes off the right half of the road. It looks like an early ’80s station wagon, cherry red with faux wood grain paneling on the side. The front end is crumpled in. Judging from the marks on the concrete sidewall, it fought a battle it stood no chance of winning. The passenger window is rolled halfway down and marred with a dried splatter of blood. All the doors are closed, and no debris is evident. I veer to the left and pass slowly, glancing in my rear view mirror as I roll by. The driver’s side door is cracked open, and a trail of bloody footprints meanders a few steps up the road in front of me before ending abruptly. What happened to the driver? As if on cue, the yawning maw of the George Wallace Tunnel comes into view, a glow emanating from its depths.
Someone—or something—is in control. I could bypass it, head back to Route 90 and circle around. Cryptic tunnels likely to be under the control of hostile forces are pretty high on my list of things to avoid. But there is no way anyone could be anticipating me, and I seriously doubt they would have the means to capture me. Besides, I don’t know any other way of retreat except heading back across the bridge. Fuck it.
The sidewalls sprout up as I plunge into the manmade cave. Dirty white tiles cocoon the cavern, debasing it into a claustrophobic dungeon lit with the fluorescent overhead lights of a penitentiary. Stepping on the gas and driving like a lunatic, I skid through the bends, my tires screeching as my tail end drifts between lanes. If there is a blockade ahead the force of my vehicular assault should give me the element of surprise. Not to mention the momentum to escape in the ensuing chaos.
With each bend I anticipate armed barriers, government forces, or even worse. I strain my hearing for any telltale sign and rigorously scan the horizon for peculiar lights or shadows. But nothing materializes. I pop out into the hazy yellow streetlights of Alabama.
I can see a gold Toyota Camry descending into the tunnel on the opposite side, but that’s it. No military presence. I’ve been way too lucky so far. Next up is Baton Rouge, my last major city before Texas.
A few hours pass, and the sun slowly rises in the heavens, the early morning light glimmering through a cloudy sky, everything cloaked in a filmy shade of gray. A
thick, low-lying fog carpets the area, the backdrop returning to the similitude that is much of highway America.
Some of the areas are slightly more populated. I roll through stretches of interstate assailed by onramps and merge lanes, the flanks populated by shuttered buildings and furtive homes, rendered all the more morose by the prevailing mist. The relentless forest closes in once I pass.
It starts to rain, the oversize drops smothering the tiny windshield. They didn’t make old cars nearly as resistant to the elements, the small curve of glass fighting a losing battle of visibility against the assailing water. Unfortunately I had smashed out the driver’s side window, and the pellets of rain pound me in a steady barrage. The precipitation progresses into a torrential downpour, a cascade of droplets flitting around the windowpane and crashing into my face. Sheets of water blanket the windshield, cutting down my range of vision to a few feet. I slow to forty miles an hour. The red glow of taillights drifts into view, and I cross over to the left lane, passing a brown blur in the storm. The car slides too easily, and visibility is low. A deluge of water buffets the passenger side as I pass, pushing the Camaro into a tremulous slide. I’m so close. This heap just has to make it through one more state!
The Camaro wheels were made for racing, not gripping wet pavement. I would feel far more secure if the car were sealed tight against the storm. I just hope the water doesn’t fuck with the exposed wires under the dashboard. The last thing I need right now is for everything to short out and to have to try and find fuses in a downpour.
Don’t flip... Don’t wreck... C’mon, baby, you can make it... I keep repeating it like a mantra, glancing affectionately at the dash. Strange how easily desperation can make you form bonds with non-sentient objects.
